


secrets written in our blood

by popsicletheduck



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, As you do, Blood and Violence, Dissociation, Fantasy Racism, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Imprisonment, Magical Artifacts, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quests, Rebellion, Swearing, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Temporary Character Death, Villain Deceit Sanders, alcohol mention, also sorta. that ones even more complicated, overthrowing a king and reclaiming a throne, please be careful with this one, sorta? it's complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popsicletheduck/pseuds/popsicletheduck
Summary: Roman Theodric is a prince without a throne. Fourteen years ago, the lord Calarook staged a successful coup that killed the entire royal family, save Roman. On the run from the newly appointed king still out for his blood, Roman, now going by Rey, settled into an unremarkable life as a stableboy. But when one of his father’s old advisers finds him and insists he attempt to take back his rightful place, Roman sets out to reclaim what should’ve been his.Except even a prince can’t do everything alone. Along the way he picks up a motley collection of companions: Patton, a cheerful traveling bard with more songs than sense and more weapons than songs; Logan, a talented healer tucked away in a remote village; and Virgil, a wandering nomad always skulking in the shadows.In an uncertain world, everybody’s got a secret. And when the truth turns out not to be quite as clear cut as you once thought, who are you supposed to trust?
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil & Creativity | Roman & Logic | Logan & Morality | Patton
Comments: 33
Kudos: 47





	1. humble middles

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't find the very specific fic that I wanted to read, so I bit the bullet and decided to write it myself. I haven't really written Sanders Sides before, but I'm out of a job and quarantined so what else am I supposed to do. Please take the tags seriously on this one, and please let me know if there's one I need to add. This is going to be a wild ride, so buckle up and settle in!  
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! The human connection will make me feel like a person again.

The half moon was setting towards the western horizon, scant light just enough to illuminate the rough outlines of the world, clumps of grass and sprouting buds rustling in a spring breeze still edged in winter’s chill. The Great Eastern Road was a shadow against shadows, a bare place cutting through the landscape. In the distance the River Ohda ran, churning and bubbling against the bridge that forded it, the sound counterpointed by the shifting of half bare branches of the trees that lined the river. The stars twinkled from their place in the heavens and all was still under the darkness.

And along the road, not far from the river but distant from everything else sat the Winking Fish Inn. In the daytime it was a cozy thing, solid stone walls and carefully thatched roof, noisy with the sound of life and business. But in the night it was a hulking shade, a silent monument to something nameless. Weary travelers slept sequestered away in their rooms, tired from days of travel and growing uncertainty. A snore, a rustle of bedcovers, a hand twitching in sleep. This was nothing but a stop in the road, a momentary pause. The town of Midrest was three days to the northwest and only scattered villages and inns like this lay between here and Estembra to the south. The road was safer these days, it was said, and yet stories of bandits and smugglers lay on every lip. Winter had come too late and stayed too long and the fields were suffering. Profits were low, expenses were high, taxes kept changing. Rebels hid in the forests and stole children for their war. The gossip was never good.

In a downstairs window, a single candle flickered to life. And in the yard, a hooded shadow paused, stilling among the black. A moment passed. A whisper of conversation, too soft for even straining ears to hear. And then the light was extinguished and the shadow slunk towards the stable, where another light burned among the night.

Roman paced between the stalls, running a hand through his hair. He should be asleep, he knew that. He had been asleep, but then Holly, the oldest of the innkeeper’s three daughters, had snuck out to see him and he’d had to deal with… that. His frustrated sigh startled one of the horses into a snort of its own, and he halfheartedly reached out to pat its neck. Even if he didn’t sleep, it was unfair to keep the horses up. 

He didn’t understand what was so difficult for her to get. He didn’t love her. He didn’t love anything about this piece of a life he’d carved out for himself. He was competent in his job, yes, he didn’t starve or freeze, but it was… it was…

Carefully he hung the lantern back on its hook, the light casting far more shadows than illumination. He hadn’t forgotten, not any of it. Not even the parts that he wanted to forget. Not the daydreams stained with memories, not the memories that bled into nightmares. Roman leaned his forehead against the wooden post.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he muttered, “none of it.”

“Why of course not,” a voice said. Roman whirled, and standing in the open doorway was a figure. Just outside of the lantern light, they were little more than a shadow. “You were born to be so much more than a stableboy,” they continued, “weren’t you.”

The panic Roman knew he should be feeling at the implications of those quiet words was drown out by a rush of indignation.

“Stableboy? I’m a hostler. The head hostler, thank you very much.”

“Head of what? You are the only hostler here, are you not?” The shadow stepped over the threshold, and although Roman couldn’t see them, he could sense sharp eyes taking everything in. Embarrassment irrationally burned his cheeks. He did his job well, he had nothing to be ashamed of, and yet...

“Well, yes, but that just clearly means that I’m in charge!” With every step backwards Roman could feel his bravado weakening. The shadow’s voice was crisp and elegant and familiar in a way he couldn’t place, which only increased his growing panic. Why now? Why like this? He’d fought far too hard to stay alive to die now. “Can I- can I help you with something?”

The shadow snorted, ignoring his question. “In charge of a kingdom of horse shit? Surely you have bigger dreams than this, Roman.”

He laughed, though it came out uncertain and wobbly. He was nearly there, he knew, a few more steps and the pitchfork would be within reach. Not the best weapon, but he wasn’t going down without some kind of a fight. “Roman? I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong man, sir, my name is Rey.”

His name had been Rey ever since that night he ran, ever since being Roman had become far too dangerous. Now the name his mother had given him felt odd on his tongue, even as he clung to it in his heart.

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

Roman’s fingers closed over the pitchfork’s handle, rough wood long since worn smooth by use. Swiftly he swung the fork up two handed, scarred metal tines pointed towards the king’s man.

“I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but leave now before I fill you full of holes!”

“Didn’t I just ask to be done with the lies? You know why I’m here. And you know who I am, too.”

The man took another step forward, and another. Roman adjusted his grip.

The shadow stepped into the light. Gloved hands reached out from beneath the dark cloak to push back his hood. And Roman knew him. Age had settled across him in a way it hadn’t yet in his memories, strands of grey through his hair and lines on his face. And his face… Scars, old and faded red, spread across from his forehead all the way across one cheek and down his neck until they disappeared beneath the high collar of his tunic. Suddenly the smell of the lamp oil was nearly overwhelming, mixed with the stink of burning flesh and hair. Distantly Roman thought he could hear screams and feel blood, sticky and cold, on his hands.

“Demetrius,” he gasped. The pitchfork slipped through numb fingers, clattering against the floor.

Lord Demetrius bowed low, a relieved smile curling his lips. “Your highness. It is good to see you again.”

Roman rushed forward, grabbing the other man by his shoulders and pulling him upright. “How are you not dead? How are you here?”

“My burns were,” one of Demetrius’ hands flexed, “extensive. But not lethal.”

“But Calarook, he killed… he killed everyone. You were one of my father’s closest advisors, how…?”

The guilt in Demetrius’ amber eyes was piercing in the moments before he looked away. “Your highness. I’m not proud of the things that I had to do to survive but… I have been in the service of the king.”

“Calarook?!” Roman stepped back as if he had been burned, as if the betrayal was a physical blow. “How could you work for that traitor?”

“Your highness-”

“He stole my birthright!”

“Roman-”

“He killed my family!”

Demetrius’ hand clamped over his mouth. “I know!” he hissed. “And if you keep shouting, everyone else will know it too!”

Roman pulled in a long breath. Demetrius’ eyes scanned his face, and after a moment he let go. “That is why I’m here, in fact. I came to help you take back the throne that should be yours.”

A laugh pulled its way out of Roman’s throat, tasting of iron and bitterness. “How? I’m barely a prince anymore. I haven’t touched a sword in years.”

“Then maybe it’s time to fix that.”

With a swirl of his cloak he pulled out a sheathed sword, its belt trailing after it. The scabbard was leather dyed a brilliant red and intricately inlaid with gold to form the Theodric royal crest: a golden castle on a scarlet field. A single ruby was set in the pommel of the sword, ornamented with more gold. Roman recognized it instantly. It was his father’s sword. The king’s sword.

“How…” he breathed, his hands hovering over it reverently.

“The brilliant thing about working for a king is people have a fascinating tendency to believe whatever you say. All I had to do was ask. With the right words, of course.”

He looked up to stare Demetrius in the eye. The last time Roman had seen the man, he hadn’t even come up to the lord’s shoulder. Now he had several inches on him, and the difference was both startling and bittersweet.

“I don’t know if I can be a king,” he whispered, the admission terrifying him. “I don’t know if I’ll remember how.”

“You’ll remember,” Demetrius soothed. “It’s in your blood.”

Roman took a breath. And another. Trying to quell the shake in his hands, he reached out and took the offered sword. Somehow it felt both lighter and far heavier than he’d imagined. He’d never held it before. He’d been a child the last time he’d seen it, still reckless, still naive, still certain of the way his life would go. _One day,_ he heard his father say, deep and certain as the river, _this sword will be yours and it will be your duty to protect our people._

And then the memory faded, and the hope growing in his chest crumbled like a fresh leaf caught in late frost. “One sword, however grand, won’t be enough to root out a traitor.”

“No,” Demetrius admitted. “But you are the rightful heir to the throne, and the deep magic of the world will remember that. Do you remember the tales of the Amulet of Dageel?”

Roman had never forgotten a tale in his life. “They say the kings of old used the amulet to reshape the very mountains itself in the days before it was lost.”

“I know where it is.” Roman stared wide eyed. Demetrius met his gaze coolly, as if he hadn’t just suggested Roman walk straight into legends that were ancient long before the house of Theodric claimed the throne. “If you can retrieve the amulet, Calarook will have no choice but to relinquish the throne and bow the knee before the power of the true king.”

“If its location is known, why has no one tried to retrieve it yet?”

“Because I know how to keep my mouth shut. Besides, the journey will likely be perilous. The amulet rests deep in the Greyspine Mountains. Near the foot of the mountain they call Dhirtovel, they say there is a trail, long forgotten, that leads to a cave. There a foul beast protects the amulet, and it will recognize none but the rightful heir.”

The rightful heir. With sudden clarity Roman saw his surroundings: the unsteady lamp light, the straw covered floors, the warm stink of horse, the rough clothes stained with dirt and shit, the pallet in the corner. He didn’t have a place in the tales anymore. Destiny had left him behind the night he watched his brother die.

As if sensing his hesitance, Demetrius reached out and placed a careful hand on his shoulder. “You are Roman Theodric,” he said, quiet and firm, “Prince of Leoneas and heir to the throne of Cerenth. You cannot stay in the shadows forever. This is your right and your duty. Throw off the stableboy. Become the prince you were born to be.”

Strength sunk into his veins, steel settling into his bones. Roman straightened and grasped the hilt of his father’s sword.

“Well. I suppose I should get going then.”

The half moon was setting towards the western horizon, tucking itself among the tops of the distant trees, bright silver against velvet black. The soft rushing of the River Ohda around the bridge nearly drowned out by the thudding of hoofbeats. The wind tugged at Roman’s hair as he rode, his hood long since fallen around his shoulders. The weight of his father’s sword at his side, the cloak pulled tight around him, the stars bright and clear overhead. 

The Winking Fish was merely another unremarkable shape in the darkness behind him.

The horse Roman had stolen was a mare with a deep grey coat, sturdy and reliable and well able to take the weight of both him and the supplies Demetrius had given him. The road stretched before him, endless and waiting. In the distance he almost believed he could see the distant peaks of the Greyspines against the horizon, their jagged spires still snowcapped.

He was free. He was going on an adventure. He was going to set everything right.

Roman threw his head back to the night sky and whooped, urging his horse on into the unknown.


	2. the road is never empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to add a chapter specific warning for this one for on screen violence, injury, blood, and lots of discussions of death. Essentially I cranked the angst in this chapter, and I promise I will get to some not angst relatively soon, but we all must suffer to get the rewards of fluff.  
> Also! If you've got questions or ideas about this AU, feel free to hit me up in the comments or on my tumblr! I'm popsicletheduck over there too, where I occasionally also shitpost about swiob because no one can stop me.

The thing about the tales of adventures that the bards told, Roman decided as he huddled close to a sputtering fire after his eighth day on the road in a futile attempt to dry himself, was that they always skipped over just how awful traveling was. He’d left the Great Eastern Road five days ago, turning off it as soon as possible. It was too well traveled to be entirely safe for him, so he’d be sticking to smaller roads as much as possible. Even then, he pulled his hood up any time he heard someone approaching. Despite the fact that he’d only been twelve when he’d been forced out of his home, Roman had been told more than once since then that he bore some resemblance to the former king. The fewer people saw his face, the better.

But sometimes full days would go by without the sight of another soul. Just him and Stormheart, the name he’d gifted his horse, and the vast empty miles. It was maddening.

Roman sang every song he knew and a few he didn’t. He told all the tales he knew of great heroes and kings and ancient days where magic ran through the world like rain. He made up stories, and if all of them were a little close to ideas of magic amulets and princes without thrones, at least there was no one there to judge him.

The road he was on had turned into country far more hilly and barren than the green plains near the River Ohda. It twisted through rocky terrain and small brown hillocks dotted occasionally with the first hints of spring green and the rare wind bent tree. The wind blew fierce and cold and constant, kicking up swirls of dust that coated every surface. It had rained for nearly two days straight, a consistent chill drizzle that soaked everything and turned dust to mud. As the ninth day dawned thankfully clear and less thankfully damp, Roman found himself wishing desperately for someone, anyone, to share the journey with. Even just someone to complain to, he thought, would make everything more bearable. Stormheart didn’t count, since her only response to his grumblings was a flick of her ears. Roman wanted some actual comfort, or a good old fashioned argument, he wasn’t picky. 

But this day crawled by just as lonesome as the days before, the sun slowly drying the mud into a crackling coating that flaked off with every movement. He’d almost resigned himself to the permanent silence when, as the sun began to dip towards the west, the wind brought the sound of voices from up ahead.

Roman strained to hear what was being said, but the distance muddled the words. But then, clear and distinct, a cry of pain.

Roman nudged Stormheart a little faster. An accident, perhaps? He’d help if he could, of course. He was, after all, on a quest, and the stories tended to be pretty clear about the responsibilities of a hero when meeting other travelers in need.

But as he drew nearer, the voices clarified into words and Roman realized he’d misjudged the situation.

“Now, surely this is all a bit unreasonable? I can give you half of my money, but I-ghk!”

‘You talk too much.”

“Sorry, sorry, but it’s what I do, you see-”

Roman threw Stormheart into a gallop as he drew his father’s sword from its scabbard, wrapped now in spare cloth to hide the distinctive crest. The blade flashed like lightning under the sun. No poor traveler was getting robbed while he was around to do a spot of rescue.

Flying around the bend, Roman tried to take in the scene as quickly as possible.

Roughly half a dozen men, bandits by their patchwork armor and collection of rusted weaponry, clustered around another man on the ground. He was dressed well for this part of the kingdom, in a light blue vest and matching blue striped breeches, a soft grey cloak draped across his shoulders. Those nice clothes were covered in dust as he knelt on hands and knees in the middle of the road. The lute case across his back identified him as a bard, the second and clearly less used shortsword one of the bandits held identified him as unarmed. Every face turned to Roman as he charged, sword held high. And then, taking advantage of the distraction, the apparently unarmed bard drew one, no two knives from seemingly nowhere and practically lept onto one of the bandits. 

Then the rush of a fight took him, and Roman was far too concerned with trying to remember combat lessons from almost a decade and a half ago to pay attention to much else. Luckily the bandits weren’t particularly adept warriors, and the horse and surprise gave him an advantage. But Stormheart wasn’t combat trained and as men screamed and gurgled final breaths she started to panic. Roman did his best to soothe her while staying in control of the situation, but the moment of distraction was more than enough for one of the bandits to catch him just below the hip with a makeshift spear, cutting deep but not quite managing to embed itself in the soft flesh.

The pain was muted, distant under battle adrenaline but there. Already he could feel the blood starting to soak through his pants, the promise of pain to come. Roman grit his teeth and tried to determine a method of attack to take down his opponent, but the spear had a better reach than his sword and he couldn’t-

His attacker was suddenly on the ground, the bard he’d come to rescue standing in his place, already tucking away his crimson stained knife. Roman blinked, glancing around for more enemies, but all that were left were bodies.

“You alright there, kiddo?” the man asked, drawing Roman’s gaze back to him. His voice was gentle with concern. “Seems like he got you pretty good.”

Roman blinked again. Carefully he slid off Stormheart, trying to keep the weight off his injured leg. “It’s not that bad, truly. Are you alright?”

The bard smiled, entirely genuine. He was nothing but contradictions, it seemed. Despite the nickname he looked a few years younger than Roman, youth still edging his cheeks and his wide blue eyes. His honeyed hair was tousled by the wind, his fine clothes splattered with blood, his graceful hands familiar with the weight of a weapon. “Just grateful for the rescue! Seemed like a sticky situation for a moment there, but then you showed up! The name’s Patton, bard extraordinaire.”

He tried for a bow, sweeping and low, but halfway through he stumbled, pitching towards the ground. Roman lunged to catch him, but as he did his injury protested and his leg folded beneath him. The two of them ended in a tangle in the dirt, breathing hard.

“Well that didn’t work out,” Roman grumbled around the pain, trying to carefully extract himself from the pile and right the other man at the same time. But as his fingers brushed skin he found it cold and clammy to the touch. “Patton?”

Patton’s face was a sickly grey, over bright eyes darting without settling. Very quietly, he said, “Maybe something is wrong.” With shaking hands he tugged aside his cloak where it had wrapped around him. 

Blood, bright crimson against blue and white, stained his entire side. Roman felt his own breath catch in the back of his throat. A long slash across his ribs, deep enough Roman could almost believe he saw a flash of bone, extending past the ribcage into his gut. How Patton had failed to notice it before was a terrible miracle.

“Oh,” Patton said, fingers brushing lightly against the stain, and then his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed against Roman, limp and still.

Roman wasn’t a healer. He did know a bit of basic first aid, since the Winking Fish had been somewhat isolated and accidents happened.

He also knew the kinds of wounds that people survived. And the kinds they didn’t.

The road had fallen back into emptiness, the bodies of the bandits long left behind where they lay. Roman hadn’t cared to give them any sort of burial. Nor had he had the time. Patton was slumped against him in the saddle, Roman’s arms tight around him to keep him from sliding off. Pressed so close, Roman could also feel each small rise and fall of his chest, each shallow breath.

He didn’t want Patton to die.

He’d barely said a dozen words to the man, he barely knew his name, but Roman didn’t want him to die. He’d seen too much of death, and Patton had smiled so brightly before he collapsed. Roman wanted to see him smile again. He wanted to hear him play his lute and sing. He wanted to know how he wielded his weapons with such causal grace.

He didn’t want more memories of blood on his hands and cold bodies left behind.

But the road was empty, and there was nothing and no one and Roman had no idea where the next town was. It could be days ahead, or just around the next corner. All he could do was push Stormheart as hard as he dared and count every one of Patton’s breaths and hope.

And then, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the world in shades of red and gold and lengthened shadows, his hopes are answered. And the answer is just as twisted as he’s come to expect.

Clustered near the bottom of one of the larger hills is a tiny village, no more than two handfuls of rough stone and sod buildings interspersed with a number of gnarled looking trees. Even in the forgiving light of sunset it was dusty and bleak, overlapping shades of brown and grey with only the barest hints of green. 

Roman felt his lungs seize. Even if a village this small had a healer, it was bound to be some ineffectual herb witch with abilities that barely surpassed his own. Patton needed someone far better than that to even have a chance. Still, he couldn’t give up now.

“I need a healer!” he cried. “Please, this man is seriously wounded!”

A door opened, a woman in a grey headscarf peeking out, her face lined with years in the sun and wind but her eyes sharp as they scanned him. “Last house on the left, the one with the sign painted on the door.” Sticking her head back inside, she called, “Florrie! Go run along to aid, then. And you come right home when you’re done, hear?”

A young girl, no more than eleven, darted out from the small home, dark unruly curls peeking out from behind her own headscarf. She barely spared them a second glance. “Come on then, no sense in lollygagging.”

Roman urged Stormheart forward and tried to hold the flicker of dying hope in his chest.

The last few rays of sunlight shone beneath the shutters, already barred against the wind. He’d have to light the candles soon, but there was no need to waste them yet. Even now Logan still found an odd comfort sometimes in the dim. He was safer if he couldn’t be seen. It was irrational, he knew, but ultimately harmless. The odds of anyone coming to look for him here were infinitesimal and even then he had contingency plans in place. 

But that was not now. Now was dinner, a bit sparse to be entirely honest, but spring had arrived late, and winter food storage stretched farther than typical. It would be a lean month before the spring crops came in. Nothing he hadn’t survived before.

His quiet, solitary meal was suddenly interrupted by a loud “Master Logan!”

Florrie, his occasional assistant. The girl was still young, true, but she showed promise- a keen mind and a steady hand. If she was here at this hour, then patients had just arrived as well. Likely a kitchen accident, a slip of a knife deep enough to require stitches.

That was not what he found on his doorstep.

A great grey mare, dirt coated and weary, carrying two men. The first was clearly unconscious, blood soaking through messy bandages. And familiar. The bard that had passed through the night before. Dalton, perhaps? The second man Logan hadn’t seen before, although there was something unsettlingly familiar there too. He stared at Logan with an odd expression. Shock, perhaps? Questions for another time. 

“What happened?” he asked, already moving to carry the injured man inside. Luckily he was on the smaller side, and Logan was no longer the shut in he had once been. “Florrie, run inside and light the candles, then stoke the fire and put water on to heat.”

She was already moving to complete the tasks before he’d finished saying them. Excellent.

“Bandits,” the one still conscious said. “I don’t- I just heard a commotion and rode in to help, I didn’t…” He tried to swing off his horse to assist, but stumbled and only just caught himself against the saddle.

Logan raised an eyebrow. There was plenty of blood across his skin and clothing, but it was difficult to determine if any of it was his. “Are you also injured?”

“A little, it’s not really a problem, he’s the one who really needs help.”

“You seem unable to stand or walk unassisted, so clearly there is a problem, but you aren’t wrong that your companion is in more dire straits. If you wait here a moment, Florrie will be back out to assist you inside.”

By the time he stepped in, Florrie had the candles lit, the fire going, and a clean cloth on his worktable. Logan nodded his thanks before setting his patient down.

That was when he knew for certain.

Lead settled in Logan’s abdomen as he took in the greyed skin, the shallow breathing, the wash of scarlet. Near fatal blood loss, along with possible internal bleeding or organ damage where the cut extended into the stomach. Treated with the best of Logan’s surgical skills and medicinal knowledge, he would still die. It wouldn’t be the first time he lost a patient. It happened. But Logan looked at the young man’s face, and he knew. He didn’t want him to die.

He realized his hands were clenched white knuckled on the edge of the table. A breath didn’t ease the iron bands around his lungs. Logan knew what he was about to do made no logical sense. But he did it anyway.

“Florrie,” he called, the same composure in his face and voice as before. When the girl stopped in front of him, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “The man outside is also injured. Take my bag by the door and take him back to your mother’s house. Treat him there. Don’t come back here until I come fetch you.”

She looked up at him with bright eyes. He admired her curiosity, it was why he took her as his assistant. But today it was dangerous.

“For once, please. Don’t ask any questions. Just do as I say.”

“I’ve seen death afore,” she retorted, all young hubris. But she took his bag and left.

Logan let out the sigh he’d been holding back. “So have I.”

It did not stop the pain every time.


	3. to catch the unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know we're not particularly far into this, but I'm considering playing with form for the next section? I want to do a bunch of short, unconnected scenes to show time passing and relationships developing, but I'm not sure if I should publish each scene as its own chapter or wait and post them all at once. Or maybe some combination, like publishing each scene on tumblr individually (oh yeah, I've been crossposting to tumblr if that's something you're interested in) but waiting to put all of them on AO3. If you have any strong feelings one way or another, sound off in the comments. I'm also taking prompts on tumblr for ideas for scenes if you've got something you really want to see.  
> The song Patton sings in this chapter is "Soldier, Poet, King" by The Oh Hellos, with a slight modification.

When Patton woke up, he was cold. Not like what was around him was cold, but that he was cold inside himself. Like there was snowmelt settled around where his stomach and heart and lungs were. It wasn't an entirely pleasant sensation, but it was better than the constant aching burn and warring chill from before. Curling into himself, he groped blindly for some source of warmth. A moment later, he felt rough wool brush against his hand and the weight of a blanket spread on top of him.

"Lie still," a stern voice said. "Your body requires rest after the trauma it underwent."

Patton complied, mostly, but he did crack an eye and crane his neck to try and see where he was and who was speaking.

The room was dark, with just a faint line of sunlight peeking through a set of heavy wooden shutters. The dark expanse of a sod roof stretched overhead, stone walls around. A few rough pieces of furniture were arranged around the single room: a long table, two chairs, a single cupboard, and the thin bed Patton was lying on. A long rack of drying herbs hung from the ceiling, the air suffused with their medicinal smell. A spare set of dark clothes on a peg near the bed, a few pots and dishes stacked on the mantle, barrels of provisions and neat stacks of wood in the corner.

There was only one other person in the room, an older man sitting in one of the chairs near the embers in the fireplace. He was handsome in a severe sort of way, all sharp angles and corners. His hair had one likely been dark but was now speckled salt and pepper and carefully brushed back, save for a single strand that curled near one temple. A small pair of glasses was perched on his nose and a book sat open in his lap, but he wasn't reading. His rather intense gaze was fixed on Patton.

"I told you to lie still," he said.

"I am, I just needed to see." He’d been pretty sure he hadn’t been dead, but it hadn’t hurt to check. If this was the afterlife, it wasn’t anything like what the tapestries and stained glass showed, so probably not, Patton thought with a scrunch of his nose.

"You are in my home,” the man said, as if he could read Patton’s thoughts. “Your companion brought you here after your unfortunate run in with bandits."

Patton let his head fall back against the pillow. "Is he okay?"

"My assistant saw to him, I am certain he is fine."

A strange little laugh escaped him. "You know, I didn't even get his name. He saved my life, and I don't even know his name."

The healer shifted in his chair. "Any necessary gratitude can wait. You need more rest."

"I can't even thank you?"

With an abrupt snap he closed the book and stood, turning away to tuck it away deep inside one of the cupboards. "I simply did my duty as a- as a healer. No thanks are required."

"I didn't know magic was part of the bag of tricks of ordinary healers these days."

Patton saw the man stiffen, his shoulders tensing and the line of his back straightening ramrod straight. He didn’t turn around as he spoke, the words flat and lacking any sort of emotion.

"Magic is illegal.”

“I know, but-”

“Do I appear to be of the criminal sort?”

“Well not really, but-”

“Then I would advise you to refrain from such accusations. Your wound appeared far more severe than it was. Please do not insult my skill by insisting on a supernatural explanation.”

Patton let his head fall back against the pillow. “I didn’t get your name either,” he said softly.

A long moment passed, heavy with a tension that Patton was far too familiar with. Uncertainty weighed like empty pockets and empty fists.

“Logan,” the healer said finally. “And you are?”

“Patton.”

“You need to sleep, Patton.”

“I know.” Already his eyes were beginning to grow heavy. Like magic.

When he slept, it was deep and dreamless. But when he woke again, this time to an empty room, something lingered around the edges of his consciousness. An itch in the back of his brain, an awareness he didn’t have words for, a shadow where there hadn’t been any light before. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but was strange, and as Patton fiddled with the edge of the blanket, he wondered about laws and magic and empty buildings with barricaded windows.

Logan missed writing. Parchment was far too expensive all the way out here, and his homemade ink was poor quality. No longer did he have the luxury of writing to sort the thoughts in his head or recording any passing fancy. But he could not entirely leave his past behind, even if he was now forced to hide from it. 

So by the light of a single candle, he carefully opened to a half filled page in one of the three precious books he still owned: a gelaerath lachnun, roughly translated as a guide of healing. It had been luck he had been carrying it with him that day, the accumulated knowledge of several lifetimes, but as Logan recorded in precise shorthand his recent procedure and effects, he once again could find only the most bittersweet gratitude that the book remained in his possession. It was no longer meant to be his.

“Who are you writing to?” Patton asked.

Logan glanced up sharply. He’d believed his unexpected guest to still be sleeping since his home had been quiet, and Logan was quickly learning that the bard was only quiet when he was sleeping or eating. Indeed, his speech was slurred in the way that suggested he’d just woken, eyes blinking blearily.

“Myself. Or,” he added, a touch bitter, “possibly no one.”

“Why do you write to no one?”

Logan set his quill aside, making sure the ink wouldn’t drip onto the table. The question had been an honest one, if a bit sleep touched, and honest questions deserved careful answers.

“The preservation of knowledge for future generations is vital, even if no one reads it,” he said. “The act of recording is the important thing, connecting us to a chain that stretches back to the earliest humans exchanging information by oral tradition.”

Patton was quiet after that, probably fallen back asleep, and Logan picked up his quill again.

_ Patient appears to have suffered no ill effects, but continual monitoring will- _

“Have you always been this lonely?”

This time Logan didn’t stop writing. “I am not lonely. My work requires solitude for a clear mind. Interruptions are a detriment. It is… better this way.”

“Wouldn’t it be even more better if you could actually talk to people instead of writing to no one?”

The memory of watching Jeul in the laboratory, deep in examination of a cadaver, the spark of investigation clinging to their fingers and fascination in their eye.

“No. It’s better this way.”

The best lies always contained a piece of the truth.

It was three days before Roman was allowed back on his feet again, under watch by a surprisingly stubborn Florrie and her equally watchful aunt, Imayn. Not that he was unoccupied during that time. Imayn was caretaker to all eight of her late sister’s children, and there was always something around the house that needed mending or fixing or scrubbing, and every hand was needed. But after a particularly disastrous attempt at sewing, Imayn had simply looked at him and shook her head. After that, Roman was put in charge of keeping an eye on the three youngest: Emelyne, who was five, Col, who was three, and Tom, who was two. Sitting in the sun in front of their small house, Roman taught them games he’d once played with his brother and told them stories his mother had once told him and smiled even when he felt like crying.

The fourth morning, Roman woke in the dark hours before dawn, nightmares clinging to his skin like saltwater. But for the first time in fourteen years, it hadn’t been his brother’s dead face staring up at him with reproach. It’d been Patton’s.

He’d asked, of course, when Florrie had tried to pull him away, tried to protest. But the girl had just set her shoulders and answered bluntly, “He’s gonna die. But my ma died two years back and he, Master Logan, don’t want me to see it again. So I’m looking after you and you’ll not complain.” And his heart had ached at losses new and old and he’d let himself be led away. Roman told himself he’d already known the outcome. He told himself he’d done everything he possibly could’ve. But in the predawn chill, the burn of his failure scalded. He couldn’t save anyone. And he was supposed to be king?

Sick of the constant pricking of tears behind his eyes, Roman shoved himself up from the pallet in the corner. For a moment he thought his leg would give out again, but he steadied himself against the wall and the weakness passed. The hour was earlier enough that even his minders were still asleep, and he was tired of waiting. He’d say his goodbyes and he’d put this town behind him and he’d be the best godsdamn king Cerenth had ever seen, Merina fucking bless him.

Stormheart nickered at him as he saddled her, stopping occasionally to lean against her to take the weight off his bad leg.

“Shush,” he whispered, “Imayn will have my head if she knows I’m up. But we can’t stay here forever, can we?”

The horse didn’t answer him, of course. But she didn’t make any more noise as he led her around the back of the village, cutting through gardens and struggling up the side of the hill when necessary. Roman didn’t exactly feel like announcing his departure. But there was one place he had to stop first.

In the gathering dawn, the symbol for a healer, one of the deity Gati’s ravens, painted in white on Logan's door seemed to nearly glow against the dark. Roman didn’t hesitate, knocking as loudly as he dared. He knew he would be waking the healer, but he didn’t care. He had to know what had happened to the body.

A moment where he stood alone in the silence of the world, the only breathing thing in the stillness. And then the sound of movement from inside, footsteps on packed earth, and the door opened.

Roman felt all the air leave his body at once.

“Oh, hi!” Patton whisper shouted. “I’m so glad you came by, I didn’t get a chance to thank you before and I was worried you might’ve left town already.”

Roman replied dumbstruck, “You’re alive.”

He smiled, as genuine as when he had been bleeding out in the middle of the road. “I sure am! Thanks to you, and to Logan.”

As if on cue the healer stepped up behind Patton, straightening his glasses. His prim mannerisms reminded Roman of stuffy, overly pompous nobles from his childhood, made even more ridiculous by his uncombed hair and nightshirt tucked into a pair of breeches. 

“May I enquire as to the nature of this visit? It is still quite early.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Patton was alive?” He could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck, the flaring of a temper that had on more than one occasion led to a brawl in the inn yard. His heart clenched and his hands along with it.

The bard’s eyes flicked quickly between him and Logan. “Why don’t we all step inside,” he suggested, “to have this conversation?”

Logan nodded sharply. “A good idea. Close the door behind you.”

Roman complied, even as every fiber of his being rebelled against being told what to do by some village nobody. But the pleading look Patton shot him had him biting the inside of his cheek and not quite slamming the door.

Logan gestured for the two of them to take the room’s two chairs. Patton plopped into one, while Roman stubbornly remained standing, though his injury throbbed. Logan raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, loosely steepling his fingers in front of him.

“My apologies for not informing you on Patton’s condition,” he said, infuriatingly cool and composed, “I had deduced that the two of you had merely happened upon each other on the road and as such you had little to no concern for his well being.”

“He nearly died in my arms! I would’ve at least like to know that he wasn’t dead!” Roman was trying to keep himself from shouting, but it was only halfway successful. He wanted to hit something, to shatter Logan’s stupid little glasses right off his face.

A soft touch against his arm, like cool rainwater fizzling against hot embers. Patton looked up at him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve found you. That was an awful way to repay what you did for me.”

“I don’t blame  _ you _ ,” Roman said, at the same time Logan remarked, “It would’ve been inadvisable for you to leave bed.” An unreadable glance passed between them, an acknowledgement neither wanted to acknowledge. 

Roman turned back to Patton instead, asking,“You really are okay?”

The little bard put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. “Fit as a fiddle and ready for the road!” he declared.

It was Roman’s turn to raise a skeptical eyebrow. “You nearly died not even four days ago and you’re ready to go back to traveling alone, where you’ll be just as enticing a target for more bandits?”

Patton had deflated as he spoke, and now glanced up sheepishly, scuffing a foot against the floor. “Well, since you’re here now, I was sorta hoping I could travel with you?” 

The feeling that fluttered through Roman’s chest was unfamiliar, a sensation he didn’t have words for, but decidedly not unpleasant. “Of course! That is, if you are good to travel.”

Logan exhaled a long sigh through his nose. “More time to rest would be optimal, but if you are determined to set out today, you should take it slow and rest as often as you need. Do not push yourself.”

“Thanks, Logan,” Patton smiled. “You know, you should come with us.”

The abrupt change startled a “What?” from Roman. Logan appeared similarly puzzled, his brow creasing as he stared at Patton as if he could discern an answer by sight alone if he looked long enough.

“I don’t even know where you’re going,” he said slowly. “I have a life here. I can’t just leave.”

“You just seemed so lonely, and I thought that maybe…” Patton trailed off, as though a thought was finally occuring to him. Turning to Roman, he asked “Where are we going?”

Oh. Oh. Why had he never thought of an answer to that? True, he hadn’t expected to have any companions on this journey, but someone had been bound to ask eventually. He should’ve prepared for this.

“I have family in the Greyspines, and I just got word that my uncle died because there’s some monster out there hunting them so I’m going to help.”

Not the worst lie he’d ever told. Probably not the best, either.

Patton’s eyes were wide with sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry, you were already dealing with all of that and then I dragged you into this.”

“No, no,” Roman hurried to reassure him, “I couldn’t exactly just leave you there, could I?”

His eyes flickered to Logan, and suddenly he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. The man’s gaze was distinctly calculating. Logan knew, Roman felt with sick certainty, that he was lying. He waited for an accusation, for a demand for the truth that Roman decidedly couldn’t give. His hand tensed, straying towards where his father’s sword hung at his waist. He watched Logan’s gaze follow the movement, a shift in the healer’s expression that for the life of him he couldn’t read.

“I’ll go with you,” Logan said suddenly, breaking one of the longest moments of Roman’s life.

“You will?” Patton gasped with delight, hands flying to the sides of his face.

“Yes,” Logan replied, absently straightening one of his sleeves. “Florrie is well trained enough in herbcraft to serve the needs of the village, and if the beast in the Greyspines is killing people, there will likely be those injured who need a skilled healer.”

Roman wanted nothing more in that moment than to grab the older man by the shoulders, shake him, and demand to know what was going on. He had been so certain Logan had seen through his lie, but if so, why double down on it? They were both near strangers to each other. What did Logan gain in helping him save face?

“I do insist, however,” Logan continued, and here it was, some sort of deal, a price for keeping his mouth shut, “since we will be traveling together, that you tell us your name, since you have neglected to do so before.”

“Oh. It’s Rey.”

Logan nodded, apparently satisfied. Patton smiled at him again.

Could it all actually be that simple?

“ _ Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lore, _

_ He will slay you with his tongue, oh lei, oh lai, oh. _ ”

Patton’s clear voice rang out in the sunshine as he strolled and strummed his lute, somehow keeping perfect time even if he wasn’t quite watching where he was going. Logan walked just behind, seemingly lost in his thoughts, but every now and then he would reach out to nudge Patton away from a particularly large stone in the path. 

From atop Stormheart’s back, Roman could see the miles ahead of them, winding off into the horizon. But now the long stretch didn’t hold the menace it once did, the wind battered landscape no longer quite so dreary, and he found himself smiling. In the light of day with friendly faces at his side, it was easy to believe that everything would work out just fine.

“ _ There will come a ruler whose brow is laid with thorns, _

_ Smeared with blood like holy oil, oh lei, oh lai, oh lore, _

_ Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lore, _

_ Smeared with blood like holy oil, oh lei, oh lai, oh lore. _

_ Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lore, _

_ He will tear your city down, oh lei, oh lai, oh.” _


	4. a close shave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to publish the short chapters individually, since it's been taking me longer than I would've hoped to write them. So sorry for the tiny update, but hey look, fluff! Or hurt/comfort, which is about as close to pure fluff as my tiny angsty heart can get.   
> Chapter warnings for dissociation and vague references to potential self harm along with the usual death mentions.  
> The song Patton sings is "Back to the Earth" by Two Steps from Hell.

Roman scratched absently at the stubbly beginnings of a beard across his chin as he stacked his gathered firewood inside the ring Logan had cleared. He didn’t like having facial hair. It reminded him far too much of things he’d rather forget.

_ Remus with a clump of hair he’d cut from his pony’s tail glued into a horrible fake mustache. Mother trying to scrub the sticky mess from his face as Remus struggled and whined. Father in the background, trying to hide his laughter.  _

_ “Patience,” Father saying, ruffling Remus’ hair. “One day you’ll be a man.” _

_ Except he never would be, would never grow the beard he so wanted, because he was dead and Roman was all that was left and all he wanted was his brother back. _

His body continued to move, detached, while his mind spun off into increasingly elaborate fantasies. The problem with being an identical twin was Roman could picture in exact detail what Remus would look like right now had he survived. He could see him smiling, laughing, striding between the trees with his carefully groomed mustache, so much like Father but with his face. With the face Roman caught in every puddle and stream and reflection these days. His brother by his side, their fourth companion, singing along to Patton’s songs and arguing with Logan and helping him take care of Stormheart. 

He could see it all in his mind so clearly, so perfectly, that Remus should be right there behind him right now that he could believe-

“Hey, Rey?” Patton asked.

He turned, and it was just Patton. Just Patton and Logan rifling through their supplies behind. Just Patton, looking at him with concern poorly hid behind a smile.

He continued, “If the stubble is bothering you I can shave it off for you.”

It was then Roman realized he was still scratching at the beard. A constant itch under his fingertips. Fingernails tugging at his skin. He pulled his hand away from his face as if it had burned him.

“No, no,” he started, “it’s not a big deal, really, I just…”

The words dissolved off his tongue as he looked at Patton’s face. How long had it been since someone actually looked at him like that? How long had it been since someone actually cared?

“It’s not a problem Look, I got a knife for it right here!” Reaching down, the bard pulled a small knife, the blade barely the length of his thumb, from the top of his boot.

“You’re going to try and shave me with a boot knife?”

“It’s what I use for myself!” Patton squished one of his own smooth cheeks, grinning.

“I thought you were just too young to grow any yet,” Roman teased.

Patton gasped, eyes going wide, one hand splayed against his chest while the other curled to a fist against his hip, the very picture of comedic offense. “Now Rey, I am a young man of the world, how could you suggest I’m a baby faced child?”

“You are a child,” Logan commented from behind Stormheart. “From your looks and mannerisms, I would say you’re no older than twenty.”

Patton cried indignant, “I’m twenty two! I’m a man and I choose to have a clean face.”

Roman felt the edges of a smile curling his lips. “But why do you carry your razor in your boot?”

“Why, just in case I’m ever in a  _ close shave _ !” Patton said, giggling at his own joke.

From behind Stormheart, Logan sighed. “You are aware that puns are the lowest form of humor, correct?”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you, your voice was too  _ low _ -gan.”

“I’m going to scream,” Logan said, deadpan.

Roman laughed, and it felt like something came loose in his chest, some stone lodged between his ribs finally shaken free by the movement. The ache of what he’d lost was still there, but this… this moment, this laughter, this camaraderie, this that he thought he’d never feel again, it felt good. It felt like something that mattered.

Patton’s hands were gentle as they shaved his face, cautious and careful and kind. Fingertips calloused from lute playing brushed against his cheeks, looking for stray hairs. The knife was wielded expertly, without even a stray scratch. Patton hummed softly as he worked, snatches of a song Roman didn’t know.

_ Whatever your sins, whatever your loss, _

_ Your cup is filled. _

_ There is no way to turn back the clock,  _

_ No one will. _

_ Call on me, there’s fire in your heart, _

_ Lying in wait just like a lion. _

Tears pricked the corners of Roman’s eyes. Patton froze as soon as he saw them.

“Oh, did I- did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I-”

Roman reached up and grabbed his wrist. “No, no, you’re good. You are... beyond good, Patton. Thank you.”

Even in the mixed light of sunset and fire’s glow, Roman could see the blush across the bard’s cheeks. “I’m just glad to be able to help.”

Roman let go and let Patton finish and let himself remember what it was to be cared for.


	5. little unsteady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, I tried to write fluff this chapter but it did not happen. But, I will pat myself on the back a little for hitting 10k! We're at proper long fic length now, folks. And there's still lots and lots to come. Chapter warnings for self sacrifice, discussion of a past plague (bad timing, I know) and references to fantasy discrimination.

Their road had wound higher as the days passed, hills giving way to something more rocky and mountainous. Not the Greyspines, unfortunately, those were still far to the southwest, but still difficult to traverse. And though Logan wasn’t the man he had once been, he also was no longer as young as his companions. Rey had healed remarkably quickly and now often led Stormheart when the road got particularly bad, and Patton could climb the slopes and still have the breath to sing, a talent he demonstrated often. Logan felt the ache in his bones from sleeping on stone every morning and often fell behind as the others stormed ahead.

By mid morning the three of them had found their way into a narrow, scree covered canyon, the occasionally overgrown trail they’d been following narrowing even further as it stubbornly clung to one of the walls, barely wide enough to walk single file. The loose rocks above and below made their way treacherous and the wind blew ceaselessly in their face, no matter how the road twisted. A few scrubby bushes grew near sideways from among the jumble of rocks, bare branches covered in thorns. And then, between the whistling of the winds and the crunching of gravel underfoot, Logan thought he might’ve heard the faint sound of water from somewhere below. 

Edging closer to the drop, he peered down. A river would be a useful thing, as a means to both replenish their supply of drinking water and clean the constant layer of dirt and grime that clung to everything. Even if it was far below them now, they could keep an eye on it and search for a safe road down. But the sun seemed to be at just the wrong angle behind him, and he couldn’t quite-

“Logan?” Patton called from the road up ahead. “Everything alright?”

“Everything is fine, Patton.” If he could just get a little closer to the edge- “I simply-”

A clattering of stones falling away and suddenly the ground beneath his feet was gone, nothing but open air, his body already bent towards the abyss, only one way to go. Time slowed as certain inevitability took over, weightlessness before the plunge, his stomach twisting oddly. Logan tried to turn, to reach, to find an edge that he wasn’t sure was there, one last attempt, blue sky and grey stone-

A hand grabbing his wrist, the grip vice-like, his body slamming into the slope, dislodged stones and aching ribs and dust in his face. Logan looked up and met Patton’s eyes. The bard had flung himself across the path to catch him, his head and shoulders already dangling over the edge. A reassuring sort of smile curved the corners of Patton’s lips, but his gaze was firm with stubborn intensity.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

But the rocks were still falling, the edge disintegrating, a cacophonous avalanche as they clattered down the slope, and the ground Patton was splayed out on would not remain ground for long.

“You have to let go,” Logan shouted over the clamour, because there was no logic in both of them falling to the possible river below, because sacrifice was a useless, empty thing. Because Patton still had years left and a life unmarred by useless politicking and fearmongering. 

“Give me your other hand.”

“You’ll fall too!” Did the fool not understand, or was he still caught in the recklessness of youth, the naive invincibility that insisted nothing could go wrong until, inevitably, it did? Gravity was a constant and in the end everyone fell.

“GIve me your hand!”

_ “I’m far too busy, I still must-” _

_ “Go to bed, Eftbetung.” Jeul crossed their arms, their gaze unforgiving as they stared him down, a feat only made possible because they were still standing and he was seated. _

_ Logan rose from behind his desk, shuffling parchments into neat stacks and marking his place in tomes before closing them. “I don’t appreciate your cheek, young one.” _

_ “And I wouldn’t appreciate having a dead mentor. Sleep afore you fall over.” _

Feet digging for purchase in ground collapsing beneath them, Logan reached up and took Patton’s outstretched hand.

But the damage had already been done. Even as Patton tried to pull him back, the ground beneath Patton’s chest was sliding away, stability and purchase disappearing down the canyon. In moments the entire path would be gone. Part of Logan wanted to look away, to avoid staring into the face of the man he’d just condemned to death, but something held him. And there, instead of the fear he’d expected to find, there was determination and a strange acceptance of fate and Logan felt something shiver deep within him in the face of an idealistic devotion deeper than madness and stronger than steel.

And then as Logan steadied himself for the inevitable, Rey reached forward and snagged Patton by the back of his tunic, one hand wrapped around Stormheart’s bridle, and together man and man and beast pulled them all from the edge.

Safely back on stable ground, Logan breathed what felt like his first breath in hours. His chest twinged at the movement, no doubt bruises already forming. In truth he was lucky his shoulders hadn’t been pulled from their sockets, though they too ached fiercely. A necessary price, he supposed, for survival.

“Well I suppose no one else will be using this road for a while,” Rey said, staring back at where a gap now divided the path, a few stray rocks still bouncing down the new landslide.

Patton asked him, “Are you alright?”

“As fine as can be expected,” Logan waved him off, attempting to brush the dirt from his clothing. “That was incredibly foolish, what you did.”

“I won’t let anyone fall on my watch.” Logan glanced up at the uncharacteristic seriousness in the bard’s tone, but by the time he did, Patton was already smiling again. “I just didn’t think our relationship would be this  _ rocky _ !”

“What have I told you about puns?”

Rey laughed, Patton giggled, Logan sighed. 

They walked on, and with the distraction of physical exertion Logan could almost forget what had happened. Almost.

The scraggly bushes didn’t provide much in the way of firewood and the thorns made gathering it a dangerous activity, but they managed a small fire at their camp that night, just enough for a bit of light and meager heat against the winds. Logan was tired and aching from the battering he’d taken from the cliffside, ready to sleep dreamlessly until woken by the morning sun, when Rey spoke.

“How about a story, Patton? Something to take our minds off everything.”

“I don’t know,” Patton said, wrapped tight in his bedroll but propped up against a larger boulder. In the dim light he was little more than a shape. “I’ve told a lot of stories. Logan, why don’t you tell one?”

Logan sighed. “You are the storyteller, not me.”

“Well sure, but anyone can tell a story.”

“That is functionally true, but-”

“Come on, old man,” Rey cut in. “One story and then we’ll leave you alone.”

“While I doubt that, I will impart a legend if that is the price of my sleep tonight.”

Laying back and staring up at the stars overhead, piercing and bright, Logan cast his mind back to information he hadn’t thought about in many long years.

“It is said, that back in the time when the earth was still young and magic was still new, in the days of the reign of King Joceus, that a great and terrible plague swept the kingdom. Even the most dedicated of Gati’s healers could do nothing to stop its spread, because it was not an infection of the body, but of the soul. For in those days, magic was a gift available to all and many wielded it with great skill. But those infected by the plague watched as their magic weakened, darkness replacing where light once was, until they could no longer call on it at all. Terrified and furious, the people demanded that the king find a way to reverse this terrible disease. It was then that Joceus uncovered its origins. 

“For the king of the elves had long desired Joceus’ eldest daughter for his wife, but Joceus would not allow her to be sent away to a land where she would wither and die long before her husband. So as the price of marriage, King Joceus set the secret of the elves' long lives, so that his daughter might live long and fruitful.

“But of all things, the elves guard the secret of their longevity most carefully. Furious at Joceus’ request, the king of the elves concocted the plague as revenge. Even Joceus' most humble apology held no sway on the Sylvan, and the disease ravaged until Joceus’ daughter, beautiful as the willow and strong as the sea in storm, begged for her people to be spared and softed the elf king’s heart.

“But even the elves’ magic couldn’t restore that which had been lost, and thus even to this day the elves remain strong in magic and their children are rarely born without the gift, while in humans magic is far rarer.”

Silence followed the end of his tale, at least for a few heartbeats, until Patton asked, “Is that story true?”

And Logan froze. Because his first instinct had been to defend the information he’d studied decades ago. After all, knowledge was truth. But he remembered the first time he’d heard the history he knew twisted against him, versions of old events not in any book he’d read, half truths weaponized against the magic that resided with the marrow in his bones. And the war with the Leoneas elves had been a long time coming, grudges made many years before his studies.

“It is a story,” he said slowly, “And stories are malleable things. I was taught it as truth, but that may not have any bearing on its veracity.”

“Stories don’t lie,” Rey insisted. “Even if the events aren’t strictly true, the messages matter.”

“Determining the value of a fictional story is an artistic and value based judgement, not my area of expertise. But I believe I was tasked with telling one story, and I’ve done that. So I am going to sleep and I better not be disturbed until morning. Good night.”

But the restful sleep Logan had hoped for remained elusive, and he dreamed of dead kings entombed in falling stone and dead hands reaching to pull him into the blinding light.


	6. a shortcut to mushrooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an apology for last chapter, which had zero fluff, I wrote this one, which is 90% fluff. The title is in fact a reference, and if you know what it's referencing, you are a nerd. Almost as big a nerd as me for making it.  
> I do also have some less pleasant news, I'm going to be going back to work soon (yes in the middle of a pandemic, isn't capitalism fun) which means that updates are going to slow down considerably. I'm aiming for one more chapter before I go back, but then updates will probably slow to roughly weekly. To all of you who have supported this fic and especially to my regular commenters, thank you. It's not even a little bit of a joke when I say this story would not exist without you.  
> The song Patton sings in this chapter is "The Sky and the Dawn and the Sun" by Celtic Woman.

Stormheart snorted and shook her mane as Roman finished settling the straps on her bridle. He patted the side of her neck. “Feels good to be out of that horrid mountain wind, huh girl?”

“I still don’t understand why you insist on talking to the horse,” Logan said as he tied the last of their supplies onto Stormheart’s back. “It’s not as if she can respond.

“Well I don’t talk to you and you still respond so I suppose I’m evening the score.”

Logan scoffed, and Roman prepared himself for the sharp edged retort, but instead the healer froze, looking around the small clearing among a cluster of evergreens they’d made camp in the night before.

“Where is Patton?”

Roman whirled on the spot, searching for the bard’s bright blue among the green. His pack was propped up against the base of one of the trees, his lute resting carefully against it, but Patton himself was nowhere to be seen.

“Something must’ve happened to him, I’m going to go find him!”

“Wait, Rey!” Logan was saying, but Roman was already gone. Patton was his - dare he think it?- friend, and he couldn’t let something happen to him.

He was several minutes into his search when Roman realized he didn’t actually have any idea where Patton had gone and he was just as likely going in the wrong direction as the right one. He stopped in his tracks, knee deep in a patch of bushes bright green with new leaves. He couldn’t blunder around for hours, what if Patton needed him now? There had to be something he could do, he was a prince, he should be able to find one wayward bard-

Like birdsong on the wind the music drifted back to him. Familiar and gentle, a traditional hymn to the Everlight he hadn’t heard since he was a child.

_ I am the dawn, I’m the new day begun. _

_ I bring you the morning, I bring you the sun. _

_ I hold back the night and I open the skies. _

_ I give light to the world, I give sight to your eyes. _

With a cry of delight Roman set off towards the source of the song. Like a moth to a flame he went, heedless of any obstructions in his way.

_ From the first of all time, _

_ Until time is undone, _

_ Forever and ever and ever and ever. _

So focused was he, in fact, that he didn’t see the clump of rocks poking their way out of the ground in front of him. With a thud and a yelp Roman went tumbling, rolling through the dirt to end flat on his back, staring up at the blue sky above. A round cheeked face appeared in the corner of his vision.

“Rey!” Patton cried. “Are you alright? That was quite the tumble.”

Roman sat up, shaking dust from his hair. “Patton! You’re alright.”

“Well of course I am! It was just such a lovely morning that I thought I’d take a bit of a stroll and see if I could find anything good for dinner tonight before we left.”

“You just disappeared out of camp.”

“Did I?” Patton’s brow scrunched in confusion. “I thought one of you saw me go.”

“Well don’t just wander off again. Who knows what kind of dangerous beast or wild folk lurk in these parts?”

“I don’t know about that, but look!” He pointed towards the base of the rocky hill they’d spent the day before descending. “There’s a cave there, and where there’s a cave there’s bound to be mushrooms! And not to put a fungal feather in my  _ cap  _ but my mushroom stew doesn’t have mush- _ room _ for improvement!”

Squinting at the dark crack against the distant stone, Roman frowned. “There could also be something dangerous in there.”

“You’ve got your sword, right?” 

Roman nodded. He never went anywhere without his father’s sword settled against his hip. The weight had become another part of him.

All easy, heartwarming confidence, Patton smiled. “Then we’re fine! Now come on, it’s a beautiful day and those mushrooms aren’t going to gather themselves!”

It was a pretty day, Roman had to admit as they set off. The three of them had been climbing their way down and out of the mountainous highlands, descending to fairer and greener climes. It seemed that spring had arrived in force while they’d been among the rocks, and all the bushes and trees bore bright green buds and fresh leaves, and wildflowers in purple and white and yellow lay scattered among new shoots and soft grasses. The sun was warm and quickly banishing the last of the night’s chill; the breeze was pleasant and scented with earthy perfume of growing things. Patton picked up the thread of another song as they went, singing a happy, worldless little tune. It was, Roman decided, everything a spring morning should be and he smiled as he picked a path next to Patton’s.

The cave was perhaps a little farther away than either of them had guessed, but before too terribly long they found themselves at its mouth, the ground underfoot crunchy with pine needles and twigs.

“Hold on,” Roman said, peering into the darkness. “We don’t have any light with us, if we go in we’ll have no way of knowing if there are mushrooms in there or not.”

Glancing over to Patton, he found the bard was holding the stubby remains of a candle in one hand and a sliver of flint in the other.

“You left your pack at camp, where did you get those from?” Roman asked, bewildered.

“My pockets!”

“Why did you have them in your pockets?”

“Oh I’ve got all sorts of helpful things in there. It pays to be prepared!” Patton fumbled with the candle stump as he tried to light it one handed. 

“You’re going to drip wax on yourself if you light that.”

“True… wait, I’ve got it!” Drawing one of his knives, Patton shoved the hilt into Roman’s hand, and before Roman could even get a word out, impaled the candle onto the tip of the knife and lit it. “There we go! A candle and a candlestick. Now let’s go!”

It wasn’t a particularly big cave, it turned out, just big enough for the sunlight to not quite reach the back but not much bigger. More disappointingly, it didn’t contain a single mushroom, though Roman and Patton both did thorough searches. The rock walls were bare and the floor only contained a jumbled mix of dirt, gravel, dead leaves, and bone.

Emerging back out into the sun, Roman shook out the already sputtering candle and handed the whole contraption back to Patton. “Well that was a bust. I supposed we should be heading back.”

“Not entirely. Look!” Patton opened one of his hands, showing a number of small, roughly square bones. “Knucklebones! I lost mine ages ago, and this isn’t quite a full set, but we can figure something to do with them.”

“I’m a mean gambler,” Roman said with a smile. Remus had taught him, and Remus had always played to win.

“We’ll keep it friendly, then. But you are right, we should be getting back to Logan before he gets too worried.”

Well aware now of the problem with rocks when he wasn’t paying attention, Roman was keeping a good eye on where he was going on their way back. However, he wasn’t watching where Patton was going. Not until, with a whoop of surprise and a muted thud, Patton disappeared from where he was walking right next to him.

“I’m okay!” the bard called immediately, followed by, “Oh wow, this is really pretty. Rey, come look!”

Once again following the sound of Patton’s voice, Roman found himself looking down into a small, steep sided hollow. Ringed in waist high bushes, it was easy to miss. But the entire hollow was carpeted in white wildflowers, growing so thickly it was impossible to see the ground between them. Patton was sitting in the middle of them, gently brushing his hands over the blossoms.

“Do you think the elves made this?” he asked. “It’s certainly nice enough to be something they made.”

“Elves don’t make anything real, it’s all just magic and illusion. This is too real to be elf magic.”

“If you say so… oh!” From between the flowers Patton pulled out a long, thin, bright green stem. “This is a wild onion! It’s not quite mushrooms, but still tasty. Rey, help me look, maybe there are more of them buried here.”

Logan was stone furious when they traipsed back into their clearing, dirt smeared hands holding their bounty of onions. His eyes glinted obsidian sharp as he peered at them from behind his glasses, arms crossed.

“And where have you been?” he inquired. “You ran off hours ago, it’s nearly midday and we’ve made no progress.”

Patton held forth a bunch of onions, proclaiming, “We found dinner! And some knucklebones, but the food is the big one, I think.”

Logan stared. “You ran off to find allium? I hardly think that’s a productive-”

“Oh cool it, old man,” Roman cut him off. “Half a day not traveling isn’t going to kill us.”

“We’re going to go help your relatives.” Logan raised an eyebrow. “Or have you forgotten?”

Right. That was his lie. “Of course not! It’s just…”

It was just that his family had been dead for fourteen years. It was just the Greyspines were so far away and hardly seemed to be getting closer. It was just that for the first time in fourteen years he didn’t feel quite so alone. How could he be in a rush to lose that?

Roman shoved the onions he was holding into Patton’s arms. “Right. Let’s get going, then.”

“Rey…” Patton said, hesitation in his voice.

But Roman grabbed Stormheart’s reins and started off down the trail and didn’t look back. If he was chasing his destiny, then he was going to do it head on.


	7. to market, to market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I've been beating this chapter around forever and seeming to get nowhere. Still not sure it's where I want it to be, but it's something. In good news, big things are happening next chapter, so hold on tight! I'll try to get it out a bit speedier than this one.  
> The songs Patton sings are "Danny Boy" (there's a bunch of different versions of it, I went with the one that lives in my head so I'm unsure where I picked it up from but it's probably the Voice Male version) and "Birds of the Feather" by Erutan.

“It’s really very simple,” Logan remarked. He was leading their little group this morning, his face turned firmly to the distant horizon smudged with dark green, his shoulders set. Rey was walking next to Patton, leading Stormheart behind. Rey often prefered to walk next to Patton, listening as Patton told stories of other cities and distant places he’d visited in his wanderings. For all the man seemed to know what he was doing on the road, Patton got the sense he hadn’t ever actually gone that far before. The one place he never seemed to ask about, however, was Hyleth, the capital city, which Patton was grateful for. He had plenty of stories about Hyleth, but they weren’t the kind he liked to tell.

But this morning Rey wasn’t listening to him tell stories. Instead he was arguing with Logan, something that was becoming increasingly common. Even something as small as choosing where to camp for the night could set them going for hours. Sometimes Patton could get them to call a truce, but they were both stubborn and opinionated and rarely ever willing to back down.

The argument they were in this morning had been going on for several days now, on and off and back on again like clouds shifting in front of the sun. Patton was very tired of it.

“If you wish to continue traveling at our current pace,” Logan continued, oblivious to the angry glare Rey was shooting at his back, “then we need to stop in a town for supplies. While we can hunt and gather for our food, it will slow us down considerably, especially since the road you insist on traveling will take us for a considerable distance through Felvok Woods, where food will likely be even more difficult to find. While we don’t have much money, Patton has expressed his willingness to perform to earn some. There is no reason for us to avoid every scrap of civilization on our journey.”

“The closest town Patton knows of is three days entirely out of our way!” Rey protested, throwing his arms wide and nearly hitting Patton. “And just because you’re useless at hunting doesn’t mean the rest of us are. We’ll lose more time with a pointless diversion than if we just stick to the road.”

“You seemed unconcerned with pointless diversions the other day.”

“And you seemed like you wouldn’t be an unreasonable, stuck up _ jerk _ when we invited you to travel with us but I guess I was wrong!”

“There;s no need for name calling,” Patton cut in. Taking a deep breath and shoving down his worries, he continued, “Rey, Logan is right. Supplementing our supplies is one thing, but living entirely off the land is another, and you wouldn’t want to make your family wait any longer than they have to, right? And Draycott is a fine town, it won’t be that bad. You’ll get to see me perform for real!”

The look Rey turned on him ached of betrayal. “So you’re teaming up with Sir Smartypants now?” Patton opened his mouth to protest, to explain, but Rey pushed on. “FIne, fine, we’ll go! Since I’m clearly outnumbered here, we’ll go.”

“Excellent,” Logan said flatly. “I knew you’d seen sense in the end.”

Silence settled like ash, acrid and bitter. The dirt crunched like shattered glass underfoot. Old melodies echoed in the back of Patton’s head.

Quietly he said “You know it’s okay to be scared.”

Rey scoffed. “I’m not scared, that’s ridiculous. I just don’t want to waste any more time.”

“If you say so.” 

Rey didn’t say anything more. The road wore on. Patton sang.

_ The pipes, the pipes are calling, _

_ From glen to glen and down a mountain side. _

_ The summer’s gone and all the roses falling. _

_ It’s you, it’s you must go and I must bide. _

Draycott was a town of edges: the edge of Felvok Woods just beyond it, the edges of the sharp peaked houses, the edges of the heavy wooden wall surrounding it, its tips carved into spikes.

“I thought you said this town was nice,” Rey grumbled from beneath his hood. He’d pulled it up when they’d crossed onto the main road almost three days back and had rarely let it fall since.

“It is nice,” Patton insisted. “They’re just a bit worried, that’s all.”

Logan said, “Well they should be. Felvok is well known for harboring all sorts of miscreants, mercenaries, and malcontents.”

With a grunt Rey pulled his cloak tighter around him. Patton tried to keep the worry gnawing at his gut off his face. Rey was hiding his face, hiding the sword at his hip with the red glass embedded in its hilt… it had to be glass, didn’t it? It had to be glass, and Rey had to be just a traveler who didn’t like people or some such, Patton shouldn’t assume. He shouldn’t jump to the worst conclusion.

_ But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow, _

_ Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow. _

_ ‘Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow. _

In truth, Draycott wasn’t Patton’s favorite town. Estembra by the sea was lovely. Hyleth was soaked in memory but beautiful in its own way. The sunsets in Bywater were breathtaking. In Draycott the air was heavy with anxiety and the streets were heavy with guards in the black and gold of the king, well used weapons at their sides.

But Lief the baker at his corner stall in the market always gave Patton a smile and the biggest loaf he had and Minette the cooper had once spent a night swapping tales with him while passing a tankard of her own mead and there was always a child who would dance when he played a jig. Towns were made of people, after all, and people were alright.

Talebot, the grey haired barkeep of the Ivory Pony, looked surprised to see him. After all, Patton had been through Draycott not more than three months ago before he left to head into the hills on a path he hadn’t traveled before. But Talebot gave him a room and a seat near the hearth anyway, even if he also shot a suspicious look to Patton’s companions. Rey hung back, a silent phantom at Patton’s back, and Logan, oddly, seemed to stay closer to Rey’s side than he had for many days. Their behavior stirred Patton’s memories, and his smile to Talebot felt a touch forced as he tried not to put together the pieces in front of him.

But like so often, he could forget so much once his lute was in his hands and the music came bright and chirping.

_ I will always love you, I love you, _

_ And with this kiss I make this vow, _

_ To love you forever, _

_ Like birds of a feather we’ll be, _

_ You with me. _

Patton played love songs and hymns and ballads and jigs and didn’t let his eyes stray too often to where Rey sat in the darkest corner, his face entirely lost in the shadows. But even then, his voice strayed back to something slower and sadder and achingly familiar.

_ But if ye come when all the flowers are dying, _

_ And I am dead, as dead I well may be, _

_ You’ll come and find the place where I am lying _

_ And kneel and pray in mourning there for me. _

“We need to be moving on,” Rey said in place of greeting or congratulations when Patton joined him and Logan at their table with his night’s earnings. “This place isn’t safe.”

“The Ivory Pony is a good spot. And besides, the market’s already closed. If you want supplies we’ll have to stay here for the night.” Patton was tired, tired from performing and tired of the furtative, suspicious energy. 

But he slept poorly, curled up next to Rey in the room’s only bed while Logan slept on the floor. He wanted, and in the wanting he ached.

_ And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me, _

_ And o’er my grave will warm and sweeter be, _

_ For you will bend and tell you that you love me, _

_ And I will sleep in peace until you come to me. _


End file.
